


YOU SHOULD’VE WORN YOUR HELMET

by ffelweed



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: but a lot of them contain a friend’s character or were written by a friend, last one of the old warcraft stories i’m posting!, she was my undead scarlet crusader (warrior) and she had The Brainrot, there are actually a lot more stories about her!!, these are about eldie, this was actually two stories but they can go together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25858816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffelweed/pseuds/ffelweed
Summary: Eldie paced back and forth across the lawn in front of the Chapel, both her red armour and her undead state gaining her numerous glares and a great deal of ire. Well. What did they know? Her foot slammed into the ground in irritation, dry dirt flying from the force. When she and Cav had first arrived at Light’s Hope, the guards at the gate had lowered their weapons at her, blocking her path. Cav, of course, had been free to enter.It was only theScarletwho was unwelcome.
Kudos: 1





	1. You Should’ve Worn Your Helmet

Eldie paced back and forth across the lawn in front of the Chapel, both her red armour and her undead state gaining her numerous glares and a great deal of ire. Well. What did they know? Her foot slammed into the ground in irritation, dry dirt flying from the force. When she and Cav had first arrived at Light’s Hope, the guards at the gate had lowered their weapons at her, blocking her path. Cav, of course, had been free to enter.

It was only the _Scarlet_ who was unwelcome.

She’d lost count of the number of fights that had broken out in the last few days. If her voice could still go raw from screaming, she would’ve lost it after the first day. Cav had watched silently, and it was only his gaze that kept her from lashing out more and more. If not for his presence, there would likely be dead crusaders—and one less forsaken in the world.

Again and again, her feet moved through the dust. Sixteen steps forward, each equidistant, about face, sixteen steps to return her to her starting position. A perfect line, the remnant of military training from the days when the Scarlet Crusade was still a crusade and not a cult. Heel to toe she walked, the fluid movements of a march practiced for years to perfection. Once, the pacing had brought her peace. Even in death it had calmed the rage that boiled in her stomach, gave her the time to slip away and find a proper dance.

Not today. Today, the pacing only made her agitation grow. Again, she stomped her foot. In the recesses of her mind, the woman she had once been knew she was being childish. A woman of her age, no matter that she still kept her hair in pigtails, did not act like a young girl being denied her favourite toy. That voice was easily quieted by the frantic screams of the undead creature she had become.

It wasn’t _fair_. She’d given just as much as they had, hadn’t she? More, even. What made their Crusade so much better, what made _them_ so much better? Nothing. Shiny plate and new recruits, that’s all they had over her. Fingers itched at her side, aching to reach for her axes. Light, to tear into something. To rip and scream and revel in the—no.

A shuddering breath she no longer needed. No, no. This wasn’t how she handled it. Dancing, dancing was what she needed. Enough partners that she could sink her axes in their flesh without losing herself in it, moving from one to the next without dwelling on a single corpse.

If only the air weren’t so damn _heavy_! It sung with the Light, an oppressive force that made her teeth ache. That was the problem. It had to be. She still had enough control that she could ignore glares and cruel comments, ignore the wads of spit that landed at her feet. She was not so wild as that. Cav called her sweet. She would be sweet, even if it took all the effort in her small frame not to rip the nearest Crusader’s throat out with her teeth.

Light, but she hated the Argent Crusade. No-good, stick-up-their-bum, arrogant, pathetic, _weak_. Her foot slammed into the dirt again, drawing attention from one of the greenies. The girl couldn’tve been in with the goody-two-shoes for more than a week or two, and yet her hand already rested on the hilt of her sword in response to Eldie’s outburst.

The forsaken clenched bony fingers into fists, letting out another deep breath. Fine. Fine. It had to be dealt with, anyway. A quick dance, that’s all she’d do. Enough to purge the hate and rage and need from her system, that’s it. She didn’t want Cav to see her like this, anyway, when he made his way back from another hunting trip. For him, she wanted nothing but smiles and sugar. That decided it, really.

The guards at the gate let her pass with a small sigh of relief. Even now, with her measure of people dulled by death, she knew they hoped she wouldn’t return. Well, they’d just have to be disappointed. She knew these lands as well as they did, after all; better, probably, judging by the young faces many of these Crusaders sported. Not only had she spent her entire time within the Crusade stationed in the plaguelands—she had grown up in what was now the western half, on the small island of Caer Darrow. Half these recruits spoke with quick Stormwind accents, nothing like the slow drawl of those who had lived here. The rage threatened to overwhelm again, and the undead had to carefully smooth her tabard to keep from lashing out. It wasn’t even their _home_.

Quick feet made their way through the plaguelands, never once stumbling over broken roads or the shattered bones of the long dead. She moved with muscle memory, not paying any attention to where she went. Her feet would take her where she needed to be. Above, bats circled lazily in stagnant wind. Eldie tilted her head up at them for only a moment before moving on—not good enough. Besides, they were just bats. They hadn’t done anything wrong. The remnants of the Scourge didn’t interest her, either. Dumb things, slow things. There would be no true dancing with them. And no blood either. Something real, something good, that’s what she—Ah.

Instinct pulled her into brush, just off the side of the road. It wasn’t good cover, and she’d never been good at hiding, but there was nothing but bats out here, anyway. Maybe a single, stupid, wandering deader, if the group was unlucky, but this part of the plaguelands carried little danger compared to the rest. They’d be relaxed, at ease, unexpecting of anything she might decide to do. They were probably merchants, anyway, more preoccupied with the thought of their profit than of danger.

Silver glinting from the fetid sun proved her wrong. It drew her eyes, dazzling her blind for a moment. Oh. _Well_. Three Crusaders, their armour all shiny and bright, laughing as they started the home stretch of their patrol. Two of them, she recognized. Her blood roared in her ears, vision clouded by the sight of their swords held against her, denying her entrance to their stupid town with its stupid name. She didn’t mean draw her axes, to rush from the brush with a strangled cry. But one of them had forgotten his gorget at home, and none of them had bothered with helmets. They taunted her, with their pretty faces and their clean tabards.

The first—black hair, large nose—fell before he knew what had happened. A harsh kick to the stomach knocked him back and winded him even through his armour, and an axe found the side of his head. One. She left the axe there, letting it fall out on its own, and clutched his dying arms to spin him in front of her, his corpse her shield. Iron swords clanged off that impeccable armour, leaving deep scratches Eldie couldn’t help but take glee in. Not so pretty anymore!

She shoved the corpse forward, trapping the second, brown haired Crusader and ignoring his cries of horror. The third, this one blonde, circled, watching her warily. Right. No more surprise. Both hands went to her remaining axe, her head at a curious tilt. She smiled, more wide than she should, and the blonde charged at her. Stupid. Eldie stepped to the side, graceful, and dropped her axe to the ground. It was easy enough to push her body backwards in the air, to land with a flip with her hands on the blonde Crusader’s shoulders. She never would’ve been able to do that alive! Bony fingers clung to his shoulders, scratching scores in his pauldrons, and as she let herself fall backwards she brought him with her. She landed on her feet, but the Crusader was dumped lightly on his back. Eldie giggled, booted foot raised high. He should’ve worn his helmet. Two.

The brunette was the last. He’d freed himself at some point from under the corpse of his friend, and his sword was pointed at her. His shield was up, his stance just wide enough to be defensive. Eldie glanced down to her discarded axes, one behind her, one behind her enemy, and the remaining Crusader took the chance to come at her.

Oh. A near miss, as she twisted out of the way. She’d have to sew up the cut in her tabard. Feet spun, bringing her further from her enemy.

Once, when she was little, a troupe of dancers had come to Caer Darrow. Among them were two women from the capitol, with silk outfits that clung to their skin and strange shoes that had put them on their toes. Eldie had been entranced. The women had been nothing but fluid movements and grace, as steady as the beat of the lake’s small tide against the shore. One dance, that was all she’d gotten to see before her father dragged her back to the shop. Just one, but it was enough.

The Crusader was on the defense again. He shuffled ever so slightly to the left, changing his grip on his sword. Eldie kept just out of sword’s reach, circling as best she could to reach one of her axes again. Her opponent caught on quickly, though, and rushed her again.

Nowhere to go. Another of those flips, up and over the brunette. Still no closer to her axes, but closer to him. As he spun to face her she ducked under his sword and shield, smiling up at the taller man. Ah, right. The one who’d left his gorget at home.

Her teeth graced his neck, gentle, and the Crusader let his weapons fall in defeat before she finished it.

Three.

Eldie wiped the blood from her face, looking down at her prizes. It was a much better dance than any the pirates had given her, back in the jungle. She kneeled down, peering at them. She’d be in trouble if they were found. Scourge didn’t use axes, not anymore. Just teeth and claws, the weapons of dumb ghouls and wraiths. She took the brunette’s sword, thinking for a moment, and then got to work.


	2. Seven Devils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this small story doesn’t have much to do with the previous chapter! same character, just doing her thing. which is murder.

Sunlight filtered through the broken roof above her head, red and orange and just breaking the scant treeline of what was now known as the Western Plaguelands. In other parts of old Lordaeron, life was returning. Small life, trees grown too fast by cruel druids, whose branches wavered in each passing breeze, whose bark was paper thin, but life nonetheless. But not here. Not on Caer Darrow. 

Eldie pulled her hair tightly, wrapping the ponytails around her scalp. At her feet, the decaying remains of hats and feathers almost moaned. Please, remember. Remember, return. A flash of memory, the smiling faces of a man and a woman as a girl with long blonde hair presented them with a freshly made hat. She crushed the memory under her boot as she trod on a bonnet. Eldie hadn’t come here for memories. 

The keep of Caer Darrow laid empty, the Barovs within pushed out by someone or another in an attempt to reclaim the land. It lay as dead as its inhabitants still, but from the keep flew a banner: that of the Argent Crusade. 

The undead tugged at her tabard, the red flame upon her breast burning with hatred. She hadn’t been dead long, not really. Or had she? It was hard to tell, now, but she didn’t think it had been long. Broken memories had led her to expect a thriving town, a hatshop with endless customers, not an island as rotten as herself. And not the Crusade. The wrong Crusade, no less. 

Unsure hands grabbed at the axes she left by the door when she came in. Her plate had weighed her down as she walked across the lake, ignoring the bridge and broken boats for the lakebed and the rotting fish that swam in circles despite their unlife. Swam in circles, just like she did, looking and searching and-- Right. A job to do. Caer Darrow was her home, wasn’t it? Her home, not theirs. If she were dead, it should be, too.

She hefted her axes, humming to herself as she swung them idly. They should’ve been heavy, especially for rotten sinews. And yet they weren’t. They weren’t, and some part of her couldn’t imagine them ever having been heavy. She was strong, wasn’t she? She wasn’t strong, alive. An axe twirled in her left hand, blades pointing at the ground in time with her steps. No, she wasn’t strong alive. She hadn’t understood, then. Now? Oh, now.

The Crusaders were young, inexperienced, sent to Caer Darrow to hold down a fort no one cared about and no one wanted. There were too many dead here, too many crimes. She could hear them, whispering in the wind. They called her name, told her stories. Necromancers, monstrosities. Uther visiting, the sun in their hair, the way their fingers intertwined, the feeling of biting into a peach and letting the juice run down their face. There were too many ghosts for the living. She’d been watching them, the ghosts and the Crusaders alike. Watched how the boys in their shining silver armour made bets, laughed, boozed. An easy station, fit for the sons of nobles and the ones no one thought would survive a fight. 

Eldie’s fingers itched at her axes, and she smiled. Well, they were probably right. Only seven, after all, to defend a keep? A mistake.

It was hard, to keep waiting. Her boots paced trails in the dirt, hidden from the view of the keep by ruined homes. They should’ve had a patrol. Even on an island, even with only one bridge, they should’ve had a patrol. She passed the time with thoughts about how she would’ve defended her home from a creature like herself, humming all the while. The hymn soared from her lips, eerie in the unnatural stillness of the lake. Finally, finally, the sun set. The fire dimmed from the sky, the night just as hazy as the day, and the forsaken’s mouth cracked open in a grin. 

The gates of the keep offered no guards. It offered no lowered gate, the hinges long rusted and there too few Crusaders stationed at Caer Darrow to bother with such a thing, anyway. It laid only brick before her, stained a colour like dirt, and the welcoming calls of ghosts and drunken soldiers. They had, at least, bothered to light the torches that lined the the entryway. They flickered, wavering, as she twirled her axes down the hall. Her steps echoed on the stone, heavy feet in time with the songs she’d sung as a child, discordant with the music of ale ahead. But the ghosts sang with her, kissed her forehead and her hand, pushed her along towards their mistaken vengeance. 

She blinked as she stepped into the great hall, where once the Barovs had hosted dinners and parties. Eldie had made hats for those, sometimes. Great, flowing things, with feathers bought from far off lands and yards of lace. The hint of a smile pulled at her lips, felt and straw tickling in the edges of her mind as the Crusaders jumped back from their dinner of roasted boar. She opened her mouth wide, the hymn no longer hummed but let loose, ringing against ancient brick. 

All seven, waiting just for her. A feast of her own, as she gripped her axes tighter. 

They were children, really. None more than twenty, all in cloth and simple day clothes, their chins stained with the grease of their pig. Weapons, forgotten in their rooms. She looked to each of them, smiling. “Is this your home? You wouldn’t happen to have a rest room I could borrow, would you? I’ve been traveling an awfully long way.”

The one closest to her, freckled and blonde and with that farming tan she’d come to expect, opened his mouth to respond. A shaking finger pointed behind her, to a rotting tapestry that covered a door. 

“Oh, no. I was just asking to be polite.” Her axe sang, the blonde Crusader’s body crumpling to the floor missing its head. “I don’t have to do those things anymore, you know.” The remaining six cried out, rushing over each other to escape, and the undead giggled. 

“Oh, I’m sorry! Don’t be scared!” She swung her other axe, and a black haired boy stumbled to the ground. He screamed, sobbing over his leg, now severed and lying several feet back. “It’s not your fault, really! It’s just how things are, you know. If you hadn’t been so rude as to come here, I wouldn’t have to do this!”

She caught another boy in the side with an axe, the weapon slicing him clean through. He gurgled a moment, staring up at her with wide eyes. “Oh, dear. You should’ve thought this through more. This is my home, you know! Well, not here. The island, and all.” 

Something slammed to the ground behind her, and Eldie jumped. The boy, covered in the blood he’d slipped in and sobbing, stared up at her. “You should’ve thought about it more. It was very rude.” His cry was silenced by the hilt of an axe, fragments of skull clinging to the wrappings. “I don’t like rude people.”

She smiled at the corpses. The ghosts whispered to her still, but she leaned down to pat the leg of the one closest to her. “It’s okay, now. Don’t worry.” She pulled at his pant leg, wiping her blades on the soft cloth. How many had that been? 

Eldie rose, glancing around the hall. One, two. Three and four-- no wait, those were part of the same Crusader. Right, and the one at her feet. Four. She blinked her eyes, the sickly yellow glow that marked her as undead fading for a moment. Weren’t there….? Oh, right. Bloody footprints tracked up the stairs, skid marks giving away their haste. Gone to fetch the weapons they should’ve had at their side, no doubt. Smart boys. 

Well, there was no rush, was there? They’d be back, happy to avenge their fallen friends. Or some such. The ghosts pushed her towards the long table, towards the pig carcass and the wine. Taste, please. Taste, remind us what it is, what it’s like. She could do with the reminder herself. And such a fancy dinner shouldn’t be wasted. 

She sat in one of the chairs the Crusaders had occupied, the cushion still warm. The undead flinched at the heat, a light hiss seeping from her mouth. The wine had been spilt, thick red circling the porcelain plate that held cuts of pork. She picked up the knife and the fork, careful, and sliced at the meat. One of these boys had known how to cook. Her knife slid easily through the pork, cracking the plate below in half, and lodged in the wood of the table. The fork bent at the hilt, but she raised it to her mouth anyway. 

Nothing. 

Eldie frowned, pulling at the meat between her teeth. It was in her mouth, wasn’t it? But there was nothing, no change in flavour that should come with food. There was texture, yes. The sensation of chewing. But nothing else. 

She pushed back from the table, and the ghosts around her sobbed. She flung the fork across the room, leaving the knife in the table, and picked up her axes instead. “It doesn’t matter, I think. We still have intruders, don’t we? Rude little boys, running through the halls. My momma always taught me not to run inside, you know.”

She liked the way her boots sounded off the stairs, how her footsteps echoed through the keep and let the Crusaders know she was coming. The ghosts, pig already forgotten, whispered in her ear, giggling about how the boys had wet themselves, how they cried, where they hid. And yet, at the top of the stairs, two waited for her. 

Both with short brown hair, both heavily built, both with swords and shields. Their armour had been left behind, no time in the face of the pretty little undead who’d murdered their friends, and they returned her bright smile with deep scowls. Unlike the others, they stood as though they might just know what they were doing. Nobles, then, and the quality of their weapons confirmed it. 

Eldie giggled. “Did your daddy not want you getting hurt when you ran away to be a big bad Crusader?” 

The boy on the left growled at her, but his brother held out a hand and held him back. “If you turn around and go, we’ll let you be. We’ll give you a head start before we send the rest of the Crusade for you.”

“No you won’t! You won’t, you liars!” Panic sounded at the edge of her voice, desperation easing in. “They’ll find me and they’ll get me! But--” 

The boy’s calm voice cut through once more. “You don’t need to be afraid. We can help you. It’s our job to help you.”

“Barod, she just--” The Crusader on the right, Barod, held out a hand again to silence his brother once more. 

“It’s our job to help you, miss. What’s your name?”

“Oh, I’m Eldie!” She smiled again, ghosts forgotten for a moment. She took a step forward, eyes on Barod’s rising sword. “But you’re still a liar.”

Her first axe swing was blocked, two shields rising just in time to fend her off. But, unlike the boys, who still breathe and sweat, she didn’t need time to recover. The other axe came whistling down as the boy on the left raised his sword and lowered his shield, catching him in the neck with a spray of blood. 

Barod screamed, his brother’s hot blood blinding him. Instinct lowered his shield, and Eldie’s axe kissed his neck, as well. He crumpled, his last words lost in the red that drenched his tongue, and Eldie knelt beside him, staring him in the eyes. When the last of their light faded, she rose. There was still one left. 

The ghosts giggled as she walked, but Eldie pushed them away, fingers fading through the bodies they no longer had. The undead could hear breathing, so loud in the quiet of the keep. She laid her axes, once again covered in blood, against the brick wall. “Would you like to hear a hymn?” 

From a locked door ahead, a quiet sob. Eldie smiled. “Oh, don’t worry! It’s a nice one.” She strode forward, humming the tune. Bony fingers curled around the knob, rotting hips pushed against the heavy wood. “Please open the door. I can’t sing for you if you don’t open the door.”

The final Crusader only cried again, and the forsaken frowned. “That’s very rude, you know. I’m just trying to be nice.”

Something glass slammed against the door from the inside, and Eldie huffed. “Oh, fine then.” 

Back down the hall, she stripped pieces of cloth from the bodies of Barod and his brother. Some thin, some thick, but she stripped them until she had fistfulls of heavy cloth. She shoved it into the gap between the door and the floor, singing her hymns, until she was certain the door couldn’t be moved.

Such nice boys, to light all these torches. Maybe they’d thought it would keep out the ghosts. She lifted one, staring deep into the flame, and then tossed it to the pile of ruined clothing. 

As her boots echoed back down the stairs, the final Crusader started screaming. 

Eldie smiled.


End file.
